#Vox you're not bored you're clinically depressed

[voxiiferous]

⇷⇷⇷

Send “⇷” to view a memory from my muse’s past life. | @saunteredintohell

I. Circa 1996.

He should get up, it's the first solid thought he's had since Val left. Stormed out. His screen isn't broken this time, which is more than can be said for their last break up. Four years ago their breakups had numbered in the single digits-- less than 5, and the number of times Valentino had broken his screen had been the same. Now... both were slowly ticking up, faster and faster with each year.

He had been good at math-- liked graphs, and if he had bothered to put this on a line, it would be fucking exponential. Val is always os apologetic after each time though, dates, and kind words, and promises he won't do it again.

He's in his bath, sort of. It's one of those fancy glass showers, where there's no edges, just a wall. He's half dressed, and had gotten... is distracted the right word when there hadn't been anything aside from his own energy failure. There's a puddle surrounding the drain, and he watches as a single drop coalesces on the tap and drops. It's a hollow sound, as it splashes against the metal or the water below the drain proper.

As he watches, another drop collects, and he watches, transfixed as it gathers itself together, growing heavy on the rim but not dropping either. When will the surface tension break, when will gravity win?

It's uncomfortable, he's uncomfortable. The small of his back is dry, but he knows when he moves, and his shoulders shift from where they're pressed against the shower wall, won't be.

It was late when Val left, and he's been staring at the tap now for... he has no idea. His alarm clock is in his bedroom, and the bathroom door is blocking it from view. The bathroom lights don't help anything, they're always the same.

He's not even tired so much as empty, like he should have expected this. He'd begun noticing these moments more and more: wake up, go to work, go on a date and come back just to do it all again.

It's fine, it's fine. He's sure that once he starts work on their new project-- streaming, as some of their newest hires have talked about as the newest turn in human media-- that the boredom will fade away, and he and Valentino will be back to how they were.

The second drop falls.

II. Circa 1940.

It's just past midnight and the bar is quiet. Vincent is gently swaying to the music, and the table closest to him has a lesbian couple that's laughing at him.

"Aren't you fancy, Vince? New job, new medium." He's only been with the television for a few months, but he'd gotten to be on screen for the firs time today instead of running around backstage, adjusting camera angles and making sure that the news they were reporting is accurate.

He laughs, and the man he's dancing with twirls him lazily. "You know me, Tessa, always on the cutting edge of news."

She nods, and her hand with the cigarette in it follows along with it. "Mmm, don't remind me. There was the tape fiasco last year."

The man... Alton? Ashton? Alvin? Something like that, it had been hard to tell over the music, spins him again. He's nice enough-- a good partner, and has been happy enough to buy Vincent a couple of drinks over the course of the night. They won't go home together, because he seems half dead on his feet, and mostly here for a good time. The song fades to a close, and he dips Vincent, helping him back to his feet, and they both sit at the table.

Tessa's date, leans against her, and narrows her eyes conspiratorially. "So now that you're big on camera, what are the chances you'll get to meet Vivien Leigh?" And then she pauses for a moment, thinking. "Well I guess for you, you'd rather Robert Taylor."

"Well as they're Hollywood actors, the odds aren't in my favour."

Half an hour later, as they're all leaving, Alton(?) throws an arm over his shoulders. "If you ever want to see more of me, I'll be here most night." Vincent nods, and kisses his cheek, waving as he turns away to head back to his apartment. Maybe if he's careful... he can have both career and love.

He's flipping through the newspaper in the break room a week later, when he stops. 'Gay Bar Raided-- 15 Patrons Arrested.' He holds his breath as he reads, no names, but it's the same bar he'd been at just days ago. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. That could have been him.

It's not safe, he can't. He can't take that risk. All it would take is one bad night and there's his life gone. he closes the newspaper, making sure to fold it along the creases, partially to steady his own hands.

Disregard love for power, for fame. He'd been a fool to think he could ever be careful enough to have, to go at all. He straightens against the counter, and puts on a smile. Show time.

III. Circa 1921.

Their house is at the end of the street, and the gutter cuts across the front of the yard. It's the boundary Mama sets for him to play outside most days. He can go anywhere in the yard, or up the tree-- all of which she encourages, because it keeps him out of his room, tucked up with his little wind-up toys, and books. More like a child.

Right now, he's sitting under the shade of the tree, array of bits and pieces set out on the thin shelf afforded by the cement divider. Little twigs, leaves, long blades of grass. Anything to make boats. Two sit beside him already, with small flowers on both. Even if they can make it to the end, it won't matter if they sink-- the flowers are there as a test. If they get wet, the design fails.

He holds his tongue between his teeth in concentration, as he gently threads a piece of grass around a few twigs to tie it off into a makeshift raft. It's one of those, long thick blades that Jesse from school can make whistle, and refuses to teach anyone else to do, but right now its rigging, and it doesn't matter if he can make it whistle or not.

He looks up as a figure comes to stand by him, casting his project in an extra layer of shade. His father. He sits down beside Vincent, and smiles at him. He waves back, pushing up his glasses. "What are you working on?" His father asks. It's the most lucid that Vincent thinks he's ever seen him, he's talking, smiling, out of the house instead of staring at things that no one else can see.

He picks up the boats, and shows his father. "Leaf boats. I'm gonna race them to see which ones works best."

"...And the flowers?"

"People. If they get wet then the people would die and it's a bad boat."

His father blinks, and then laughs, ruffling his hair. "How can I help?"

When the sun is beginning to set, and all the boats have long since been dashed against the gutters and the rocks, petal-men lost to the rapids, his father teaches him to whistle with grass.

That night, his mother tucks him into bed, "Did you have a good day?"

He nods, shuffling further under the blankets, as she leans to press a kiss to his forehead. "I'm glad," She says and stands. "Sleep well,"

It's a good day-- the best day really. Mostly because it was the only day.

[voxiiferous]

"And what do you think that means? Every post, every word on people's lips, each product bought. Chasing ratings, chasing the metrics: they might not be as immediate as the applause used to be, but still the same end results." They had been live audiences once upon a time, everything had been. Mistakes couldn't be papered over in post, the effects were smaller, the prizes too. He'd blackmailed his way into being a gameshow host and been killed for it, and the medium had changed around him until it was hardly the same at all.

One too many new hires thought he'd come from Hollywood-- Hellaina had, but that was entirely the wrong part of the country for him. At some point his rivalry with Alastor had become the most fascinating thing in his life, and then he'd been gone, and well, work had been the thing that remained.

But that... he'd say it sounds like a compliment, and coming from Alastor, that's a positively shocking turn of events. Vox shakes his head. "Change, not reinvention, darling. I can't go back-- vintage might be in but everyone wants it in a modern package. Half of what I make is new to keep the trends moving, and half of it just feeds into what people want. I'm a reflection of the masses. I keep up or they move on, and poof goes the monopoly."

"What applause?" Alastor raised a brow, genuinely confused at what Vox meant. The Vox before him seemed so far removed from decades ago. All the fun and creativity had been drained out of him, did Vox even do anything but work these days? It wasn't really any of Alastor's business anymore, hadn't been for a long time. Truthfully, for as much as Vox ate up his thoughts outside of his control, Alastor hadn't really been ready prior to this to actually sit down and have a conversation. To really think on just how much everything had changed that wasn't covered in a layer of resentment. He laughed a bit then, tapping his claws in the grooves left behind. There's more words on the tip of his tongue - what Vox had done wasn't compromise. He'd rolled over, given up everything at the behest of others. Little bits of himself traded away one show at a time until Alastor could hardly recognize him. Parts offered to everyone except the Radio Demon, who could never bear not to be center stage.

He shook his head, biting his tongue rather than worrying the wound. "I think you would have had all this regardless," it's something almost like a compliment, a firm belief that Vox could have had it all, if he wanted. "But maybe you're right! Too late now to change your mind, it's not like you have a monopoly and decide what everyone gets to watch!"

[voxiiferous]

Prime Time Reruns

Anyone who’s known Vox for a very long time know there was a change in him, though there’s no clear ability to pinpoint when exactly it changed, though everyone agrees it started sometime in the early 90s. Valentino‘s seen it, Hellaina, even Alastor has seen it in its purest flashes. Velvette never knew him before the boredom set in— the closest she ever saw were its earliest phases.

People who meet him assume he’s going to be the feared and all powerful TV Overlord, like he was in the 60s, 70s, even the 80s. They expect cruelty and a joy in the suffering of Hell— and what they actually get is someone so very tired. Even his periods of self-destructive tendencies have tapered off— the USBs of Exe.stasy have gathered dust, he doesn’t seek Alastor out for a fight in the same way, his relationship with Valentino rings increasingly hollow: empty apologies, empty promises.

And he pretends that it’s all fine— he grins and he shows up on cameras, endorses the new Vogitek product. He’s the media Overlord! He’s got so much money, and everything he could ever want— don’t you? Just pay a small fee and you can have everything. Lean into the brand loyalty and you’ll be rewarded. But the performance has been getting more transparent as he hurtles towards pure and abject burnout. His own smiling face on the billboards stares down at him and he wants to tear it all down some days.

He never stops. He builds and he makes and he broadcasts everything from his spot high in his tower looking down on everything he’s made. But he doesn’t really see it either. He sees the flaws— every artist is their own greatest critic— the breakups that are becoming more frequent, sex has become a routine pastime, every time the ratings drop. And part of the problem is that there’s been nothing new in a large way. The internet was but that was the last big thing that really booked in and about the mid 90s.

It’s a prison of his own making, but he doesn’t know how to fix it either. Part of the problem is his lack of hobbies. He used to like reading, but he hasn’t picked up an actual book in decades. He loved dancing in a way he’s never really loved anything else, and he can count on less than two hands how many times he’s done it since he died. He hasn’t built something like the little trinket she made as a child since he was one.

Those are just things he has control over, not considering the fact he can’t eat or drink, and the inhumanity in that bothers him more than he lets on a lot of the time. He can smell, sort of, and it taunts him. He brings people out to eat because it makes them more easily charmed and pliable when they get free food, and yes, he’ll laugh and he makes jokes about it, but it serves as a reminder to him that he isn’t really alive.

He feels trapped— he’s retreading the same old talking points he’s said a thousand times over. The smile is forced, and nothing is a threat so he can’t focus his attention on keeping everything he’s made. It’s fine, it’s stable, he’s made it so it’ll outlive him if something were to happen.

He’s been waiting for the boredom to pass, boredom does eventually… and it hasn’t, it’s just gotten worse.

[voxiiferous]

"I always thought being an overlord made life essentially perfect, even in Pentagram City! Vox has power, charisma,it seems like everyone wants to be either working for him or even his friend! But I do wonder maybe.. his life is not as perfect as it seems? He seems almost tired from what I can see, and I wonder even as an overlord, he's still a prisoner of hell. And that, has me wondering about a lot of things."

"Hell, am I really that obvious? I thought it was more hidden then that."

"Exhausted, Doll. And sure, they want power and control, I am a different story entirely. It's Hell, it's a punishment for everyone, some people just get out of it better off. Some people are more willing to pay for it in blood and death and sin. If I'm going to be stuck here forever, I'm doing it on my terms."

[voxiiferous]

🎶 (if you’re up for it, of course! <: hope you’re liking the new blog!)

@a-hazbin-spider

@a-hazbin-spider

Send "🎶" and I'll put my playlist on shuffle and write a starter based on the song.

Forest Fires - Lauren Aquilina

I don't have much to say There's nothing in this name Sorry to disappoint again Nobody pines for the listener A thrill I fail to deliver

And whilst I watch in silence You're starting forest fires You start them just to feel the heat

--

It's one of those things that Vox knows: in order to stay relevant, you have to adapt. Alastor might be content to remain tucked up with his radio, spurning modernity, but Vox refuses to surrender any of the power he's managed to collect over the decades.

But even he can feel it starting to take a toll. The boredom creeps in-- another game show, another commercial, another knock-off V themed version of something from the living world. What's another cereal that he can't eat? Another app? It's all the same nowadays. His performances are growing increasingly cardboard, and his sales, and his ratings, are going down with it.

He's borrowed Angel from Valentino to shoot the commercial. Sex sells, whether it's porn or Voot Floops, special edition, and Angel is the best in the game. Everyone will want to buy them because Angel's endorsing them.

Vox looks away from the scene for a moment to look at the camera, laughing slightly at the advertisement. There's not a lot of ways to make cereal sexy, but he has to admire the tenacity of the attempt.

"Cut!" He calls, pushing himself to stand, rather than lean against the walls as he makes his way across the set to Angel. "Well sweetheart, I think you're entering a new era of your career, really I do. Who wants porn nowadays, " he says, picking up the closest box of them and giving it a shake. "Clearly you're meant to be the face of all the brands in Hell."

[voxiiferous]

"I'd be surprised if it was," From an outside perspective, Vox is certain he will never be able to articulate exactly what sort of relationship he shares with Alastor and Astor. He hates him, he loves him, they will kill each other and be the only people left as Hell burns around them. There are rules to their engagements, unspoken between them, and Astor had been an alteration to them after decades. At first, he'd been annoyed, and now he's come to appreciate the shadow for what he is, tonight even more so.

Vox rests a hand on his chest, faux offended. "Remind me to never let you meet my PA's wife. Dia would love you." And then he'd never hear the end of it, though her meat was, at the very least, usually cooked. Vox lifts an eye, a subtle annoyance at the reminder that he has, mostly, made his peace with. "Yeah, yeah, but that's old news. You didn't live through the 1950s dinner parties, you might be grateful to never have to eat another canapes if you saw some of the monstrosities that were made."

He grimaces, actually letting the expression project rather than the imperfect stutter of trying to hold the smile in place. There's not really any defence of the situation. "There's... a lot of work to do." It's a weak excuse, even to him, and that's a crying shame for a man who's job was propaganda. He might not be as good with words as Alastor but it's not like he's bad with them either! "I literally can't do that. Sinners can't die, beside, it's fine, just a little bored with it all." When was the last time he'd just... not worried and actually relaxed? Too long ago if he can't place it.

He can just imagine what sort of chaos aerial silks and a cat, shark or otherwise, would cause. Vark at least, has nothing quite like that for him to be able to pull down, and Vox is certain that may be a hobby he passes on, unless he fancies a broken screen. He laughs, "Pretty. I'm sure you're graceful." The city keeps building higher and higher, he's sure that Astor could see plenty from the rooves. "'Fly me to the moon / Let me play among the stars / And let me see what spring is like / On a-Jupiter and Mars," he hums, even if the top of the tower isn't quite Jupiter.

"Ah, now there you have me." It's not untrue by any means, the hostile takeover acquisitions speak for themselves. His empire was big, but was, by no means, made from the ground up in all areas. "I'm not sure that makes Vark a shark then-- he's less... patient."

"I'm glad," Vox says, pulling his hand back as Astor does. It's true, he's right. It's safer this way. No chance of anything, nothing... his fans whirl, and he nods, the smile firmly affixed once again. "Right, yes. Sleep, work. No rest for the wicked." If there were still blood to rush he thinks he might be lightheaded from that alone.

Vox laughs, forced and mechanical in a way that it isn't when it's genuine. "I'll be hearing from you then. I'd walk you out but..." he gestures around the penthouse. "Not really an out to walk to."